He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, gripping the tarnished metal handle with both hands.

“Use the brass key on the small ring,” I told him.

I adjusted my silver wristwatch, pulling the leather band two notches tighter on my wrist.

The gray filing cabinet had sat in the dark corner behind the water heater since the summer the boys were born.

I reached past three manila folders of back taxes and found the heavy sleeve labeled with Ethan’s full name.

The paper inside was thin and yellowed at the edges, stamped by a notary public in El Paso eight years ago.